Baby, I'm Okay
by YamiHaruko
Summary: Three years have past and the only thing left to return home to is the dust. How long has he begged for this moment? It's time to end the suffering and pray that there's someone waiting for him... Oneshot. Warning: Character death. Feedback makes me happy


Author's Notes: This has been sitting _finished_ on my computer for…god, I don't know, over half a year at least. I really don't know where it came from either, but I'm not sure how much I like it, which is why I never posted it. Something about it bothers me. I dunno. Let me know what you think. Maybe something will click and I'll know what's missing so I can edit it. Also, I don't know why he left for three years, so sorry, I can't answer that for you. Inspired by the acoustic version of the song Gunnin' by Hedley.

Disclaimer: I don't own Yu-Gi-Oh!.

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He doesn't know how long he's been standing outside his long-ago home, staring at the doorway that was still so familiar to him, even after all these years. Minutes? Hours? It felt like days. It was raining, and he was soaked, but still, there he stood, his heart a dull, dead thump in his chest. Nearly three years have past, and he hasn't been able to get the one he loved out of his head anymore than if he was standing right next to him, frozen by his presence as he always was. He wasn't even sure he remembered why he left in the first place, but it did not matter now. Because he was gone and nothing mattered. Everything always changes and nothing can last forever, not the rain or the possessions – certainly not the people. Not even the memories. Because in the end, we're all destined to this fate, and more than anything, it's really a question of whether or not it is worth the pain. After all, that's what we all really want to know, is it not?

He can feel the bottle trying to slide from his hand so he tightens frigid, pale fingers around its slippery neck. The rain is so appropriate, if even a little inconvenient to his cause. He finally decides to move, _to get this the hell over with_, and the shift causes his muscles to ache from how taut they were after standing so still for so long. He passes the condemned sign in the yard, the movers will be by soon to finish the job, and spits on it. There is blood in his mouth.

One, two, three steps. _Click._ The knob turns and the door swings open with protesting hinges.

The air inside is stale, not at all refreshing like the rain, and it hits him like a brick wall, then, _fuck! _ His scent still lingers here, distinct and unforgiving, and for a split second, he almost convinces himself nothing has changed. But he is not naïve. He makes an effort to stop breathing. He feels nauseated but there is nothing in his stomach to purge, so he swallows and the all-too-familiar way the carpet molds under his feet causes his skin to crawl as the liquid from the bottle slowly pours over the floor.

It disgusts him how perfect everything still looks, not a thing out of place. As if nothing ever happened. If he didn't know the previous occupant so absolutely, he would say even the dust had a home here. A heavy sigh escapes him when he notices the TV remote abandoned in the middle of the living room floor. In a flash of memory, he can vividly see himself watching from the kitchen counter his young lover flip the pages of a magazine to the hum of a quiet movie in the background. Ghostly figures play out the scene like an old film, his transparent counterpart moving from the small kitchen to his yadonoushi's side and pushing back his hair, ancient lips brushing the warm skin of his neck in a whisper. The soft moan of approval… Suddenly he can no longer watch and his feet start moving of their own accord.

More liquid spills and he is down the hall, standing outside the second door on the left. He pauses, hesitating before giving in and pushing past the already half-open door. This is where it would end; he could remember perfectly every minuscule detail without ever looking again, but he needs to feel the pain right now – it's better than feeling death slither its way into every pore, every tendon, every inch of his body as it takes over the numbness.

The full-size bed is pushed against the far wall and the horrid yellow curtains his lover refused to let him take down because his mother made them are covered in dust and still hang from the windows. The fuzzy red beanbag chair is still in the corner by a tiny filled chestnut bookshelf where he always found him reading quietly on rainy days. Just like this one. It still has the imprint of its last occupant and he redirects his gaze before he can think about it too long. The light blue paint covering all four walls is beginning to chip in the corners near the slight slant of the ceiling. There is a lovely dark spot on the carpet between the right side of the bed and the large oak dresser where he once spilled wine and it refused to ever come out. That particular memory he was fond of; he smirked at the way the younger boy's face gathered with anxiety, desperately trying to save the lush white carpet. He failed in the end and it was a forever reminder of how the spirit made it up to his lover in the bed sheets later that evening. This only made his stomach turn again and he had to stop himself from dry-heaving. From quivering.

He leaned against the mattress for support and for a moment he believed he could still feel the warmth rising from the boy's side of the bed. It fueled the fire behind his eyes, a throbbing burn against his temples as he caressed the cotton fabric sheets with icy fingers. It was an odd sensation how his cold, dark mind was burning with warm memories but the hole in his chest, the empty, dead space was continually being stabbed with the bloody knife of despair.

The bottle was nearly empty in his hand. He briefly wondered how his hikari would react to him spilling alcohol and tracking mud all over the house. He could picture him, scolding with a quiet irritation, the way his angel face would fix its expression to try and seem intimidating by using his full name. _Bakura! Look at the mess you've made! Why are you always doing this, it's going to take all day to try and get that out of the carpet! We don't need any more stains, you know. Go get me the carpet cleaner before this sets in, and stop buying alcohol if you can't keep it in the bottle! _It never worked, but it was always so _adorable_ to watch him try that he pissed him off on purpose just to see it_. _

He stood from the bed and slowly drank the last bit of liquid at the bottom of the bottle, a desperate attempt to feel anything but the numbing silence. It burned as it slid down his throat and tried to warm his insides, though he wasn't sure he would be able to keep it down. Not like it mattered though. He could hear the rain falling quietly outside as his thumb rolled over the metal switch of the lighter. This was all just a means to an end now. And he was ready for the end. He was ready for the end the moment he heard of his light's tragic passing. The moment he felt the only connection to his soul turn cold and vacant…

The flames licked wildly across the carpet, following the wet trail through the house. But even the extraordinary heat of the fire seemed unable to warm his frigid soul. No warmth could ever compare to that of holding his other half in his arms, his balance, the only thing to ever make sense in this senseless world. The dust only encouraged the fire to set everything ablaze in the small musty house. _Incinerate everything…_ For generations he's never wished for death as much as in this one moment. To finally just _rest._

And he was so tired of this world, tired of everything. Tired of seeing smiles and only feeling pain at every quirk of the lips. He prayed to the gods for that smoldering silence of finality to overwhelm his insanity. To allow light to envelope his soul and let that last moment of consciousness deceive him into thinking Ryou is waiting…

When the morning light explodes, there will be nothing left but ashes and the subtle burn of a lonely erased existence and faded memories.

_Baby, I'm okay…_


End file.
